A/N: Now I too forever again. XD But either way, I hope you have patience left with me. If so, you're a trooper. Now, proceed.
10. Torn
The plan is thought out carefully. There's no possible way it can fail. At least that's what Amanda tries to convince herself. She has Hoffman by her side, the needle ready in her pocket and almost burning with importance, and even if something were to go wrong, he's a delirious, chubby old doctor who's weakened with fear and a constant exposure to morphine. And more importantly, he wants to die. He won't put up a fight, he might even love her for it. What threat is he? Really?
They've talked it over, she knows what she's going to do. Drag Gordon out of bed, beat him up a little, make sure she, too gets some visible injuries. Then make sure that he dies by his own hand, either force him to cut his own throat, or just knock him out and inject him. The needle in her pocket is a too-large-dose of morphine, just in case. Either way, John will think he did it to himself. He won't be mad. It's going to be fine.
But Amanda's still nervous. Gordon scares her. He's not intimidating like Hoffman, but he's stark raving mad, in that washed down, fragile way. He's got nothing to lose and he knows it. And she knows better than anyone what that knowledge can drive you to do.
She's walking down the hallway to Gordon's room. Hoffman a few steps behind her. She would've liked some comfort, she has a sudden urge to grab his hand, but it's no use. In whatever sick, twisted way Hoffman cares about her, that's not it.
Outside his door, they stop. Amanda turns to him. Knows that the fear is discernable on her face, hates herself for it. Hoffman takes a step towards her.
"Okay, you know the plan," he says, voice even huskier than usual. "Make it as messy as possible. I'll be down there," he says, pointing to the end of the hallway, "and if John comes, I'll page you, and make sure he's stalled until you manage to slip out."
Amanda nods curtly.
"Right."
"Good."
Hoffman nods also.
"Go make me proud," he then adds, with a bit of an undertone that she can't quite interpret. But Amanda's sure he doesn't mean it in the way she would like him to. She opens the door.
Gordon is asleep. Amanda steps up to his bedside, watches, even though she shouldn't. After the months he's been here with them, she's still sometimes blown away with what they've turned him into. She remembers the pictures they took of him before all this. In control, hair neatly combed. He even had a bit of color on his face, which is hard to imagine, the way he looks now.
He wants to die. Just do it. Just do it.
Amanda's not sure how to start. In lack of anything better, she picks up the box of disinfectant tissues from the nightstand, stainless steel, and knocks him over the head with it.
Gordon wakes up with a groan, turns to her. Amanda gets even more scared when she sees that he doesn't look surprised, and even worse, not the least bit scared.
He just looks pissed off. She hits him with the box again, the strange noise of steel against flesh, and uses the momentary confusion to grab his leg, making sure it's the one without a foot, and pull him down from the bed.
She does all this by autopilot. The entire of Hoffman's plan has slipped her mind, and she just hits, hits, hits, no intention or purpose, no thought at all of the fact that John probably won't believe that Gordon bashed his own face in before he killed himself. The plan is foiled to begin with, because Gordon isn't disposable. He's a furious, living thing who wants to stay alive.
Amanda doesn't know how to handle that. She suddenly realizes she's whimpering as she hits him, kneeling next to him, afraid to straddle him even though that'd give her a better angle. Doesn't need the closeness to know that Gordon will beat her.
She had the advantage of surprise, so she actually has managed to get a few hits on him. But suddenly, Gordon's grabbed her wrist, she's too drained and terrified to fight him, even though her mind says no no no no no, her body's given up. Just the look in his eyes is enough to drain her.
Gordon will do anything to stay alive. Even if he lives for all the wrong reasons.
He pulls her down to him, puts his arm around her neck. She's been in this position with men so many times, more than willing to let them empower her, and now is no different. Even though she struggles when she feels his forearm putting pressure on her windpipe, it's no use. Amanda won't pretend she doesn't know who's won.
A few feeble kicks against his shin, world blackening along the edges. She stops kicking long before it's all slipped away.
xxxxxxxxxxx
"What happened?"
Hoffman immediately stands up and grabs John by his forearms. John's too weak to put up a proper fight, but the look on his face makes it all the more difficult to fight him down.
That pure, honest pain. On the face of the last person in the world that Hoffman cares about. He feels a sting of remorse, right at the spot where he's supposed to be empty by now. When he gently pushes John into his wheelchair, he gets a sudden flashback to the night Angelina died, and wishes he could die on the spot.
"Don't look. Come on."
He starts wheeling John out the room, but John turns around.
"Take me back there."
"John…"
"Mark. Please."
Hoffman usually can't argue with him, but John's voice doesn't have any authority to it. He's weak, Hoffman's Zen master is suddenly just an old man with cancer. Halfway down the hall, he stops trying to turn around to the room where Amanda's laying, and covers his eyes with his hand.
He's grieving. He's not missing a pawn, or even a student. He misses Amanda. He misses her.
Hoffman grits his teeth. As if that will keep that realization down.
He brings John to the room with his gadgets and blueprints and locks the door behind him. Not that Gordon poses a threat to them. Perhaps he wants to keep John in here with him.
John just sits there for a bit. Hoffman stands there, hands folded. Eventually, John drops his hand and looks at him.
"How did it happen?"
"She was going to check up on him. He must've jumped her. Caught her by surprise."
John doesn't seem to have heard him. Hoffman doesn't repeat himself, knows he heard.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," John says, after a too-long break. "He's supposed to be on our side now. How did it happen?"
Haven't you been doing your job? The question lies unsaid. Hoffman grits his teeth again.
"Maybe she went after him first," he says, managing to keep almost any trace of annoyance out of his tone. "She could've. I mean, we know she had a temper."
"She obeyed me," John says.
"When it suited her," Hoffman bites back, makes absolutely no attempt to sound calm. "She wasn't loyal. I'm sorry to say it at a time like this, but she never was."
John gives him that look again, that evaluating one that he's been giving him way too often lately. He's not grieving anymore, ten minutes is enough for him to think of ways to fix the damage, and that's all they are to him. Hoffman realizes it now. Fixings.
No matter how much he cares about them, practicality comes first. His cause, the great plan of John Kramer, comes before them. They're means to an end. That's it.
"You were always eager to get rid of her," John asks softly. "I know better than anyone the demons Amanda were fighting with tooth and nail, but she was not less stable than doctor Gordon. Yet you've always argued in his favor, why is that?"
Hoffman stares back. The evaluating look doesn't seem so bad anymore. His sudden realization is like a cold blanket over his soul now, and Hoffman just meets his gaze, calmly, coldly, yeah, glare the fuck away, old man, I'm done trying to impress you.
It's John that looks away at last. He lowers his gaze and wheels away to his desk to pick up the files on their new test subject.
"Doctor Gordon will have one final chance to prove his loyalty," he says, his back to Hoffman. "Adam's corpse is still in the bathroom, isn't it?"
Hoffman swallows.
"Yes."
"Good." John gives him a half-glance over his shoulder. "Make the doctor dispose of Adam's body. You drive him to the site, he picks up the remains of the last friend he ever had, and then you take him to the river where he can dump it in a trash bag. As soon as he's strong enough to drive."
It's almost frightening, how coldly he says it. Hoffman exhales through his nose. He shouldn't be surprised. There's no way he'd be able to keep any of this up.
"I'll go tell him."
He walks out the room.